


Home

by second_skin



Series: Sun Up (ficlets) [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Friendship/Love, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-06
Updated: 2012-07-06
Packaged: 2017-11-09 07:48:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/453065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/second_skin/pseuds/second_skin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's favourite kind of morning, before and after Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home

After he returned to civilian life, settled into the tidy bedsit, and began his weekly sessions with Ella, John's favourite mornings used to be the ones without nightmares or dreams. When his mind was shut down completely by sleep until the lovely foggy nothingness lifted gently, slowly at the arrival of daylight.

Rainy mornings when the sun couldn't manage to do much more than tease at the edges of clouds to cast flickering shadows on the street outside the window. He'd wake to the tinny gurgle of the gutters and the familiar sour smell of London damp.

Nothing, absolutely nothing that reminded him of swirling yellow dust and barren mountainsides streaked with blood. Nothing that reminded him of wounded men beckoning.

A respite from memory. That was good.

He lay awake those mornings, looking at the ceiling, breathing deeply, holding onto the calm, ignoring the twinge in his shoulder and the stiffness in his leg. Repeating the mantra; telling himself what he ought to be feeling: _Don't give up yet. Don't give up. You're damn lucky to have made it --and you're still alive. You're home.  
_

*****

Now John's favourite mornings are those when he wakes abruptly to the rumble of Sherlock talking on the phone--almost always John's phone--and then feels his own clothes tossed onto his head in a bundle. "Up! Up, John! There's been a development! We have to be at Regents Park to meet Lestrade on the hour!"

The weather doesn't matter, nor do his aches and twinges. Nor even the smells and sounds--and stubborn chill-- of the disorderly flat.

He prefers having a few minutes to put the kettle on and get half a cup of bitter black tea down his throat and Sherlock's before they race out into the almost-dawn. But even the tea doesn't really matter.

Now his favourite mornings are those with no calm, no time to stare at the ceiling--just frenetic activity.

Jostling Sherlock out of the way to get to a toothbrush and razor. Ignoring the tapping foot and mumbled insults the man still can't suppress.

Sighing at a tentative brush of lips on his neck and fingertips in his hair. Still so tentative.

Grinning stupidly and stumbling in a rush to make it to the cab before Sherlock slams the door.

He doesn't need a mantra anymore, because he believes it, he feels it.

Won't ever give up now. He's damn lucky. He's very much alive. He's home.

 

 


End file.
